Redemption
by TheGodmother2
Summary: This doesn't involve you he says but we all know that it's a lie. **Complete**
1. Chapter 1

_**After watching the trailer for season 4 the tenth of September cannot come fast enough! Of course, this is pure speculation as to what will happen but what the heck that's what fanfic is for. It's my take on how Henry finds Walt.**_

 _ **If you're not watching the trailers then don't read this fic. You were warned :)**_

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Stocking the bar is a chore no bar owner enjoys but Henry's displeasure at being inside, a slave to more tasks sits sourly in the back of his throat like the bad aftertaste of a hangover. His putrid thoughts are interrupted by the persistent ring of the telephone. Yeah, yeah he thinks silently about the whole soiree routine and this time he says it much more out of expectation than willingness. He yearns for the outdoors and spends every free moment there. Only in the wide open space, without restriction, does he truly feel free and while he realizes that this is a rather simplistic representation of his freedom, he rejoices just the same, on his journey to self-actualization and soulful independence.

"Standing Bear?" The voice on the other end is familiar but not readily identifiable.

"This is Standing Bear." His voice is firm, and hard, wholly reflective of his state of mind.

"Your white shadow has gone crazy."

"What?"

"The Sheriff was just here."

"Just where?"

"At the casino construction site."

"Why was he there?"

"Looking for Jacob Nighthorse."

"Who is this?"

"That does not matter."

"Where is Nighthorse?"

"In the sky."

Henry studies the silence discerning the sincerity.

"The evil spirits abound and will soon possess his soul, Standing Bear."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Is he not your brother?" The question is both rhetorical and judgmental.

Henry hears the distinct click of the telephone hanging up on the other end and he follow suit. Disgruntled, he throws the worn bar towel on the counter, and ambles out to the Rezdawg without a sense of urgency.

That all changed after a call to the station. Walt was nowhere to be found; his house empty, the radio frequency silent.

Henry upshifts and heads for the rural airstrip as it is the only logical place for Sam Poteet to mention it is where the vast openness of the sky meets the four arrows.

He parks in the distance next to the familiar well-worn Bronco. Searching the horizon, he sees him, in the distance. His gait purposeful and elegant but for the perversity of his mission he would be statuesque.

It's not the first time they have fought; no this is just the latest, in the long line of fists and bruises. When they are upright again after a series of blows Henry quickly surmise's that his brother is filled with pain displayed as rage. The pain that has been destroying him in increments ripping off slivers of his soul and like slices of a carcass it's barely noticeable until the only thing left are remnants of flabby flesh and broken bones.

He's not listening to reason. He's beyond that. It's all about him. It always has been. The selfishness tolerated. The golden child. The gifted one. The heavy burden of justice worn as if it were a badge of honor placed next to the star on his chest.

It's not about you Henry tells him. It's about all of us. We have been given a second chance and you can't jeopardize all of our sacrifices because of your grief. It's all of our grief and not just yours.

Walt's eyes grow colder as the pain boils over into senseless words of frustration. He knows it's the truth but he's never been prepared to face it. He's never been called to account for his actions but on this day, in this grassy desolate field, he has no other choice.

"What the hell are you doing?" He yells.

"Helping."

"Get off of me."

"No."

"This doesn't involve you." His self-absorption familiar and evident.

"I went to jail for you because I thought you were worth the sacrifice."

"I didn't tell you to keep those teeth."

"I never would have had the teeth if not for your carelessness."

"Fuck you, Henry"

"Who is this imposter?" The question is thoughtful yet naïve.

His voice elevates, his grip tightens, "I don't need you. This isn't your problem."

"You made it my problem when you called me to Denver."

"You want to be my brother?" His voice is cold, "Let me go."

"If I let you go now it will be forever, Walt."

Henry's eyes are black with intensity, his words hot and fluid, and they snap at Walt.

"For once in your life stop thinking only of yourself. Do not lose your chance to live again. Do not make your marriage and your sacrifices in vain. If you do, Walt, your life has been for nothing. For nothing."

Walt gives one final push and breaks free, his hands collapsing onto his knees, the Colt drops to the ground and a small puff of dirt shrouds around it absorbing the impact of the burden.

The plane circles and continues into the distance and the hum of the small engine does nothing to drown the bellowing of pain being released down below its wings.


	2. Chapter 2

The desperation of his actions bemoan the severe ache he has been harboring inside. It's taken on a separate life form, a residency, sucking the marrow from his bones. The dormant demon rears his head in anguish through Walt's cries of fear and frustration.

"Walt, I do not know what to say to you for you to understand the far reaching implications of your actions."

"You think I am wrong?" His eyes reflect the defensive posturing that is so frequent it has become a reflexive integration in his response.

"You are wrong." Henry's words are measured matching the cadence of his thought. He takes a deep breath but doesn't touch him, doesn't extend a hand of comfort, he's poised for another rebuttal, another fight.

"It's my right, Henry!" Walt's familiar argument bears little weight given the reality of his position.

"What right is that, Walt?"

"Justice."

"What you speak of is vengeance is it not. You call yourself a man of justice. You are a fraud."

Henry's fists grip to his side in preparation of the surety of Walt's nature but this time, for the first time in nearly four decades, he is wrong. The attack doesn't come instead he witnesses the emotional retreat as Walt's face grows cold.

"Fraud you say?" His voice is light as if the proposition is so false it doesn't rise to the level of sarcasm.

"You heard me correctly."

Walt repositions his hat on his mussed hair, shakes off the dirt on his shirt, "You won't stop me next time."

"There will not be a next time."

"You can't be so sure about that."

"I can be sure about the selfish bastard that you are. You are consistent."

Walt points his fingers into his chest between his breasts, "You call me selfish?" His voice rising to match his emotion.

"You are the most self-centered person I know and barely tolerable at times, yes."

That steroidal defensiveness exposes itself once again, and he closes the distance as the two men clench pushing against each other like starved Samurai, "Fine, you don't have to worry about it anymore."

"I am not worried."

Walt turns and steps away only to turn back and point, "I can't believe I called you my best friend."

"I cannot believe I have tolerated years of your self-absorbed suffrage."

The next view Henry saw was from his back after Walt tackles him, his legs spread open bearing the two-hundred pounds of testosterone driven rage that is evenly matched with his own latent resentment. The beatings in jail, the fear of losing his freedom and the blatant disrespect of his own tangible selflessness and loss boils over and the two men tug, push, hit and rage against the unspeakable truth between them.

The exhaustion of their violent efforts finally overwhelms both men as the dirt clings to their sweat soaked brow.

Henry is the first to rise to his feet and heads in the direction of the trucks.

"Henry." He hears Walt's voice calling behind him. He's heard the pain before but never this pain, never like this.

Henry turns to see Walt, shoulders slouched, back hunched in utter defeat. He stops and looks. Walt slowly walks toward him, blood dripping from the cut above his left eye, shaking out his hand, pain undoubtedly caused by making contact with Henry's face.

"Henry," He says again as the distance closes between them but this time he isn't prepared for battle he is prepared to say good-bye.

Walt wipes his eye once more with a short stroke of his fingers pushing the blood into his hairline but he doesn't stop to notice instead he pauses as if to resort and reorganize his thoughts.

"I'm sorry." His voice is strange as if the words surprise him.

Henry's face flattens and his response is immediate, "You know, Walt this is the first time."

"For what?"

The blood dripping down the side of his face as he remembers the last time he bled like this Vic was there but he was barely conscious of her presence too wrapped up in his needs, his grief, to notice she was suffering and at his hands.

"It is the first time you have apologized, ever, for anything."

Walt's head tilts down and he studies the earth beneath his feet as the truthfulness of Henry's words pound into his flesh like a well-placed body blow forcing the air from his lungs.

His eyes fill with water, his tongue tastes of salt, "I'm sorry for that, too."

Out of air and dizzy from revelation he gingerly puts his hat on his head and walks past him, his best friend for nearly all of his life, thinking this is the moment where he walks out and walks alone.

"Where are you going?"

"Why, do you care?"

"You always have a plan and I have always cared even when I should not give a damn."

"I'm out of ideas, Henry. " He looks up to the sky, the sky that held his fate, "They aren't too good anyway."

The dirt, pressed into his cheeks mingles with the sweat, "The evil spirits are fighting for possession, and it appears they are winning."

"What should I do?"

"Sweat." Henry's eyes are steady as he looks for any glimmer of his friend, his brother, the loving introspective boy that grew into the man he hardly recognizes.

He sighs before speaking, his eyes full and sorrowful, "But I need you for that."

"When have I not been there?" His words are tepid in the hot air.

His finger half stretched points to the makeshift arena, "Even after all of that?"

"I will always be here."

Henry's jaw is set but he will not allow himself to be offended by the insinuation of the question, "I understand my destiny. I know my destination. My spirit is not troubled."

The two men stand feet apart looking at the other searching for respect and clarity.

"You think you're obligated?" Walt asks with the gentleness of a child.

"I am obligated."

"Why"

"It is what a Standing Bear does. He protects his own."

The tears are few but each one holds a portion of pain, of sorrow, and of regret.

"We will go to the lodge. There is good medicine there. We will sweat together."

"Like brothers."

"And as warriors. That is what we are."

Walt follows Henry to the Reservation and he, the medicine man, and Henry strip to their boxers as the healer stokes the coals causing the rocks temperature to rise.

"It will meet you at your own level." The wise man says.

"The last time I was here, Jacob Nighthorse was sitting next to me, sharing in this custom."

"Do you think that was by accident?"

"So, the great spirits knew?" Walt's eyebrows rise though caked with blood and dirt revealing the redness of his eyes.

"They know your enemies, yes. They know mine."

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

"Maybe."

"You being evasive?"

"No, it is a may be as it may be not."

The riddle of words and wisdom float in the lodge, the heat nearly insufferable, every pore pulsating and pushing out the pain both feel inside. Walt's heart catches up and keeps rhythm with the chants, his voice joining unexpectedly as he releases his shame, his guilt, and his fears.

His mind whirls around in an incoherent swirl as the realization of his narrow-mindedness begins to permeate his consciousness but it is too much to bear; too much, too soon, to realize the significant error of his ways.


	3. Chapter 3

The mix of sweat and blood and pain would have been enough to stop ordinary men.

"My son, you are fighting a spiritual war that is why you have not been successful in defeating your enemy." His English mixed in-between the indigenous tongue.

Walt opens his eyes and looks into the dark brown soul staring back at him.

"Do you understand?"

"Not really." Under normal circumstances he would have let out a little grin or a chuckle to make his companion feel more relaxed with his superior cerebral posturing but in this instance he was on the receiving end of inferiority and searching for the illusive pathway to truth.

"It is not flesh that you seek."

"How do I defeat what I can't see?"

"Ah, finally you have asked the right question."

The old man takes Walt's hand and holds it in his own; he feels the back of his hand with his aged fingers and looks over to Henry.

"Why did you fight with your white brother, Standing Bear?"

"To protect him. To protect his family."

The medicine man releases Walt's hand and meets his eyes once more, "You hurt the one's that love you most."

Walt's head shakes in small micro nods feeling the weight of the judgment before him.

"Are you an honorable man?" He asks the interloper.

"Yes." Walt says without delay.

"To honor is to respect. It is not for hurt or pain." He replies and continues to seek understanding in his pupil.

Walt looks down, reaches over, and drinks from the large plastic bottle of water, dampening his forehead noticing the pink stain on the hand towel.

"You think that you are honoring your wife by killing your enemy. This is not honor. This is not your way western man."

His arm slings forward, his palm open facing Walt, "This is why your spirit is in turmoil. This is why you are lost and full of pain. You are fighting the wrong war. Your war is of the spirit not of the flesh. You must have faith."

"Faith?"

"Faith is how you conquer evil."

"Faith in what?"

"That is for you to discover. "

When they pull their mangled clothes back on their wounded bodies Walt staggers to the Bronco and holds his hand on the door handle too weary to say anything to Henry but fully aware of the circumstances. He is beyond embarrassment, beyond ridicule, he is reduced to the basic form of man; weak, vulnerable, exposed and except for the small sliver of hope in the shape of a Standing Bear he would be a wanted man.

"It is ok Walt I understand."

Walt nods his head too fatigued to contemplate how at times Henry has read his thoughts. It has been this way since they were 8 years old and it has not changed.

He collapses in his doorway waking up to the realization of the mornings' events and it is only then that he sees the blinking red LED light from the answering machine.

Her voice cracks through the digital waves like a slap in the face, "Hello, Walt, all hell is breaking lose. Call me back." He always has a reaction when he hears her or is near her but he stifles it and instead chooses to think of himself. A method he has justified as distraction. He peels off his clothes and showers thinking of her and wondering how she is because he doesn't know. He doesn't ask and she doesn't tell.

There are times when the pornographic images flash through his mind and he instantly feels cheapened by them, embarrassed by them, so he ignores them but there are times when he doesn't let them go and is reminded of how fallible his flesh really is and that in the end he isn't good enough for her. Not for her.

He checks the cuts and abrasions in the mirror and just fastens the top button of his well-worn 501's when the loud pounding on his front door beckons his attention. He opens the door and she's on the other side.

"Wow! Where have you been? What the hell happened to your face?"

He steps back from the door turning away from her and she follows through.

"What the fuck happened here?" Vic realizes something is wrong and that she should temper her mouth but the shock of him half-naked, the state of his cabin, the bruises on his face force her arms to fold across her chest, her head angles down. She's self-conscious of her actions of her words but only because it's him.

"We got a report of shots fired out on the Barlow property and I don't want to go out to that psycho's place by myself."

He looks up at her for a moment, taking in the sight of her, feeling the guilt for the pleasure he feels when he looks at her and its immediately negated because he has ignored her. He's been occupied with self-destruction.

"Psycho?" He has to find something to say and he picks that to hang on and do his part in this conversation. He pulls his shirt on and looks up at her as he stretches his socks onto his perfectly shaped feet.

"Yeah, he gives me the creeps, ever since the hospital with Branch."

Stomping his feet into his boots they look at each other and both decide to do what they do best and ignore the questions they need to ask, along with the feelings they feel, and when they reach the Bronco she sees the arsenal inside. Her forehead crinkles as she processes her observations in a millisecond.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Her voice is filled with curiosity and concern and a tinge of anger.

He looks up to the sky, his hands on his hips, the cuts and bruises beginning to hurt and he replies, "Nope."

"You're such an asshole."

He knows she is right and he knows he never realized the truth until now.


	4. Chapter 4

Vic plays follow the leader to the large Barlow estate where they are met by Chet Smith, the head foreman, and the reporting party. Vic notices he is like the rest of the men of Wyoming, a little taller than expected and uses words sparingly not wasting time for pleasantries.

"A couple of shots came up from over the west range." He points toward the sun.

"That unusual?" Walt asks with equally baron verse.

"Timing was."

"How so?"

"Not in rhythm"

"Fellas shooting up there?"

"Barlow's shootin' trap with Branch."

"Did you ride out?"

"Nope, I called you instead." Chet reaches into his back pocket, opens the round green plastic tin, pinches some tobacco together and stuffs it in the front of his mouth between his lip and his teeth. He carefully seals back the tin and places it back in his rear pocket.

The two men look at each other for a moment longer than normal conversation would allow and Vic surmises it is more of that mysterious Wyoming shit she resolved she would never be able to decipher. The part where the two men decide it is so unusual that it warrants the Sheriff's Department response. The part she doesn't quite get from the empty conversation.

Walt points toward the same mythical sun, "We'll follow you?"

That prompts Chet to shift to his left and look over Walt's right shoulder summing up Vic's capabilities. This earns him a double eye roll for his efforts and a twist of the neck.

"Hop in the Bronco." Walt orders and Vic glares at him resentful of the power play.

"You know Walt, just because I didn't want to come up here alone doesn't mean its ok to treat me like some boot deputy."

She's accustomed to claiming her space and her position with him but she still doesn't allow herself the same rights and privileges of someone she would consider a friend let alone a lover. She thinks of him. For a long time she imagined he thought of her too at least that is what she tells herself every time she questions why she is still here. Still in a town she never wanted to live in working for a department she never heard of and yet here she sits in the passenger side of the aged Bronco bouncing along in silence.

He shrugs his shoulder at her response and nods his head to the left just a bit to reflect his disgust at her refrain but he doesn't respond, doesn't take the bait, as he categorizes it in his mind never considering that she is an equal; a peer with a right of descent. He is ill equipped to process the myriad of emotions swirling inside and as a result his stoicism takes the reflection of anger but in truth he is confused and in need but he doesn't know how to tell her he needs her he just knows that he does.

Chet slows the white work truck with the large Barlow range insignia painted on the side and Walt stops the Bronco about 30 yards from Barlow's chocolate burgundy quad cab diesel.

Neither one of them could have prepared for what they find, it's not something they could read in a book or learn in a training class or watch on a Joe Kenda special. The rich smell of iron is the first thing she notices, that's what she would later say in her official report, and that's what she remembers telling Walt as her tears soaked his chest. That fucking smell she would repeat over and over not realizing her words were like an endless reel of shock played for levity.

She starts to run and Walt passes her at top speed leaving Chet stopped in his tracks, his face white, and his eyes aglow at the horror that is before them.

"Get them in the bed." This time when he barks orders there's no resentment, no anger as she barks back.

"Branch, first."

She grabs his feet but Walt yells at her to move and he picks Branch up and hauls him to the bed of the truck while Vic unlatches the tailgate. He can feel the acid at the back of his throat, his stomach is tight, his mind is on lockdown refusing to relive this scenario again, but it's here. It is front and it is center.

Vic runs around to the driver's door and feels for the keys, turns the ignition but the truck refuses to start. _Fuck,_ she yells and her fingers find the seat shifter on the side of the plush leather and she impatiently waits until her boot hits the brake to fire the ignition.

She hears the distinctive thump of flesh and bone land in the bed of the truck and her eyes naturally look in the rearview mirror, his hat is down, his head comes up slowly and she swears he meets her eyes through the rear window. In that moment, that silent distant exchange, she finally understands with clarity his unspoken words.

She drops the gearshift into drive when she hears him slap the tailgate and she floors it and the dirt kicks up and covers Chet and while she can't swear it was on purpose she can't swear it wasn't.

Speeding across the plain floor she doesn't consider that her life and the history of this county will change forever, that history will be rewritten, hearts will be broken, dreams destroyed. She doesn't consider any of those things least of all the devastating implications to the man following her in the old beat up Ford.

When she hits the paved highway she feels the truck shift to overdrive, her palm raises up while her fingers grasp the top of the steering wheel. Her eyes flash to the speedometer. A cool 80 miles per hour. She convinces herself she can do 85 and still feel safe handling the modern beast. The Bronco gets a little smaller in the rearview mirror but the warm spring weather, the clear unobstructed road provide ideal conditions to push it just a little harder.

Vic reaches into her shirt pocket and grabs her iPhone and yells at Siri to call the hospital and after four different variations of the word hospital he finally dials the right number. She curses herself for changing Siri to a man let alone an Australian man but she thinks that was some sort of subconscious revenge thing to cope with the loss of her marriage. It is an excuse to curse her phone out at every opportunity without appearing to have lost her mind to those around her.

The very polite and sweet voice answers, "Durant Memorial Hospital how may I direct your call?"

"Emergency, please."

"Please, hold."

It feels like forever but it is only a few seconds when an equally sweet voice answers, and it strikes Vic that she is so out of her element she wants to scream at the nurse to have a sense of urgency, "This is Deputy Moretti I'm coming in with two victims of gunshot wounds."

"Ok."

"Ok! What the fuck."

"Deputy Moretti there is no reason for…"

Vic cuts off the chastisement, "They are both male, both appear to have shotgun wounds, neither one of them is conscious, my eta is less than ten minutes. Have the gurneys waiting."

The brazen nurse replies, "Ok."

Vic replies, "It's Branch and Barlow Connally," as if saying it out loud will produce the desired reaction to the metaphorical slap in the face but it does neither as the nurse replies, "Ok" once more.

The Dodge screeches to a stop just short of the double gurneys accompanied by the single trauma team. This is Durant after all and not Philadelphia so trauma teams are defined quite differently. Walt stops the Bronco in less than dramatic fashion and helps the medical staff move both men to the gurney. While the medical team begins their dramatic rush through the double doors he grabs her by the elbow stopping her from running behind them.

"What." She snaps at him.

"Just stop for a second." His voice is so different. She doesn't know if the change is her or it's him and she can't figure out if he is patronizing her.

"Walt." She says trying to find his motive but she has his full attention she doesn't need to say his name.

"I know." He says and she knows he does but she can't admit it she can't say it out loud.

She says his name again and feels his grip tighten around her elbow; his eyes reveal a glimpse of the pain metastasizing inside, and for the first time since she's known him she's scared of what it all means.


	5. Chapter 5

"You need stitches." Doc Weston paws his face with the strange combination of gentleness and authority.

Walt tries to push his hand away almost apologetically but is unsuccessful in his attempt, "Nah, Doc I'm ok."

"I don't tell you how to sheriff so you don't tell me how to practice medicine." The two men exchange looks and Walt acquiesces if for no other reason than to excuse himself from the fray that is occurring in the emergency room and the perplexing situation it represents.

"You must be getting used to this Deputy Moretti." He says while carefully stitching the last of the four fine lines.

Vic looks up, refusing to give an inch on her face, defiant at the question, afraid that if she speaks it to life it will once again take possession of her so she silently challenges him daring him into submission.

The doctor, no stranger to the town or his visitors, presses forward, "It seems like you are always here witnessing your counterpart being sewn shut." He bids a small smile as a peace offering.

Walt clinches his jaw, his chin jutes forward, "You through, Doc?"

He's indignant at his observation and he intercedes though he doesn't know why. He just knows he does and he can feel her resentment and no matter how many times he chastises himself, blames himself, and fills himself with regret he knows he will do it again. Later at night, when he replays this in his head, just as he does every night after spending the day with her so close to him that he can summon the slight smell of coconut in her hair, he will see her and he will remember that she allows him to do this and it keeps him hopeful though he isn't sure what he is hoping for.

A blue cotton clothed man pulls back the white linen curtain breaking the spell of their imaginations and the metal rings scrape against the chrome pole, "We've stopped the bleeding."

That's all either one of them manages to hear. The rest of the medical synopsis is playing like the teacher in Charlie Brown as Vic's eyes glaze over and Walt stares at her while both of them fight to bring themselves back from Chance's basement the setting too familiar to ignore. It's only a matter of moments before they kick into the self-defense mechanism engrained in them.

Doc Weston gives his standard wound care instructions and briefly contemplates engaging Vic in conversation. He waits a beat assessing his self-imagined competition and decides against it convinced there's nothing between the two yet there's everything between them.

When he leaves them alone she looks up at him, "Tell me, Walt." It's not a demand, it's not a plea, and instead it is an appeal from one aggrieved soul to another.

He looks down and swiftly weighs the costs for his silence while the pain from his wounds penetrates the surface of his weathered skin, "I got in a fight with Henry."

"What?" Was all she managed to spew from her mouth because the disbelief was just that, disbelief?

"Why?" She follows-up, still sitting, still waiting for a logical explanation because she can't envision the set of circumstances that would pit the two men at odds.

"Jacob Nighthorse is responsible for Martha's murder and I was at the casino airstrip waiting for him."

"Huh?" She can't piece it together. It doesn't make sense.

"Nighthorse? But it was Miller Beck? Her confusion is evident.

"He did but at Nighthorse's orders." He relays the supposition stoically unconscious of the gravity of the admission.

"Wait, why would you fight over that?" She asks because she really doesn't know. She cannot fathom the unimaginable, not with this man, not with him.

"I had no intention of bringing him in." His eyes are cold, nearly black, their intensity filling the room.

Vic sits and stares trying to put the pieces together, trying desperately to recognize the man before her all the while understanding that she too has skirted the law but never murder because that's what it is, murder.

"Walt." She finally says her voice is faint almost as if she is afraid the saints in heaven will hear their transgressions.

His eyes have never left her and he knows he's seeking approval, he's seeking refuge, but he finds neither. What he does discover he can't decipher. He can't tell if it's judgment or ill favor as her reaction is completely foreign to him because he now knows she will never accept his reasoning, she will never accept this as the right thing to do, and his throat constricts as his subconscious works through the riddle. She may not love me. She may never love me and this, this right here, may be the reason why.

Her fingers collapse and intertwine behind her head and her thoughts are suspended as she peers down at the white flecked tile beneath her feet trying to rationalize his confession.

"What are you going to do now?" Her voice void of emotion because she herself cannot beckon the strength to speak the truth but with his pause she fills the space she left for him and questions, "Walt?" She stands before him her arms down at her side, her palms up seeking him, and questioning the man now unrecognizable before her.

"I loved her, you understand." He's not apologizing.

She nods her head slightly because she does understand.

He looks up to the slotted pecked faced ceiling tile and inhales deeply, his hands on his hips, his fingers splaying forward, his eyes fall to her, "I've been a fool for so long."

His face hardens when he discovers the judgement he was afraid of finding in her features.

"Either they shot each other or they were shot by someone else." She is out of questions, devoid of any interest in his rationale, unable to detect any of the beauty he once held inside. A beauty she once thought that he held just for her and only for her but she knows now that she was wrong.

"We have to lock down the crime scene. I'll call Ruby and get Ferg over there."

He reaches for her but she steps away and in this singular suspended moment it defines everything we ever knew about them and who we dreamed they would become but we too were under the charlatan's spell.


	6. Chapter 6

"It's cliché but there's nothing for us to do except wait for the next 48 hours." Doc Bloomfield studies Vic's face relaying the obvious. "It will give us an idea of what we're dealing with."

"Was it just buckshot, Doc?" She asks faking normalcy.

"Will Branch's previous gunshot exacerbate his condition?" Walt's voice comes from behind before the old salt can answer and she feels her shoulders rise and the tension grow in her neck. Vic chooses to ignore the life altering confession that passed her ears a few moments before. The disclosure of truth and character is seeping into her consciousness and she cannot fathom the ramifications which, in a perverted way, make her thankful for the horror on the other side of the linen curtain because it serves as a violent distorted distraction.

The seasoned doctor explains, "Of course, Walt we have to be cautious but like I was telling Vic here we won't know for another 48 hours."

"What about Barlow?" He steps closer, standing in her shadow as he has done for the past four years as if nothing has exchanged between them.

"Can either one of them make a statement?"

She asks, this time she cuts off the doctor before he can reply and he looks at both of them with a have you not been listening stare, "No." Doc Bloomfield confirms.

Vic jots her notes in her leather clad notebook and turns, finding a quiet corner, to call Ferg with an update and in the deliberate move completely ignores Walt's presence.

He stands in the voided space between the hallway and the waiting room looking at her, examining her, expecting a redress but when he doesn't receive it much less a sympathetic eye he begins to realize that he is a man alone for the first time in his life and it scares the shit out of him.

She hangs up the phone and they are both trapped by their isolated surroundings and Walt, thinking it is by design, looks at her hoping that he has been mistaken in reading her judgment of him.

"Vic."

"I really can't speak to you right now."

He wasn't wrong.

Neither one of them gives an inch in their real estate which exacerbates the emotional distance between them as he draws his hand to his lips reflecting on the confession that passed through them he regrets nothing and the gulf widens though he desperately wants to stop it.

"We have to talk." He says.

He's taken her for granted. The desperation of the situation grows with her silence and he turns away from her moving toward the exit but after a few steps he stops and turns back.

"Vic, we have to work this case. You can do whatever you want afterward but I need your help right now." He's piqued in his response. His hands trying to make his case.

Her anger grows because he's making his demands as if he has the authority to offer her a choice after what he has confessed.

"What does it look like I'm doing here, Walt?" Her voice is firm as she stares at him, daring him to deny it.

Risking it, he steps forward eclipsing the physical space between them and the rest of the world.

"Vic." His voice is quiet and soft like he's trying not to wake their imaginary children but her face frowns and he lifts his hand, his palm parallel to the ground and his hip trying to quell her rebuttal.

"Vic, just wait a second."

"I thought I knew you."

"You do know me."

"No." She says shaking her head, "No, I don't know who the hell you are." Her arms fold across her chest as a protective barrier, "What happened to you, to your wife, it is fucked up Walt but the man I know may flex the law, may get angry, may do a lot of things, but I never thought you were capable of murder."

"Wouldn't you want me to do the same for you?"

"That's a bullshit thing to say."

She shakes her head clearing the confusion, "Don't do this, Walt. Don't manipulate me."

He moves closer, "I'm not manipulating you." He wants her to understand, needs her to understand.

"I don't know how to even begin to forgive you. I can't ever forget this, Walt. I can't."

"I didn't protect her Vic. What kind of man does that make me?"

They are standing close and for the first time in their time together neither is cognizant of their proximity to each other.

She shakes her head and her eyes are locked on his, "It makes you human."

"This doesn't make me human?" His voice is trembling and she tries to discern if it's sadness or anger or both.

"It makes you selfish." She matches his emotion and his brow knits because he's wants her to know how he feels and what he feels but words leave him impotent.

Walt reaches out with his hand on instinct and suddenly when his flesh touches hers he retreats but the drive to endure overrides his fear.

"Don't shut me out, Vic. Please, don't. Not now."

"You're asking too much."

"I know I am."

"But you're asking anyway."

"I can't lose you."

"You weren't thinking about that before?"

"No."

"How am I supposed to respond to that?"

"I don't know."

Their eyes lock, the space between them is nonexistent, and his flesh melds into hers. If not for the reality of his actions and of this situation we would falsely and selfishly think we were witnessing a love scene but we would be mistaking a shiny penny for the sun.

They continue like this, faking their way through a once kindred friendship, at times both of them thought it could be something more, something sacred, but the penalty of choice of choosing the dead over the living have pulled back the curtain and revealed the hidden monsters that will never be satisfied gorging on pain they are only satiated with the obliteration of their prey. The trouble is we knew the monsters were there and we placated them with the nightlight until the bulb grew too dim to keep them at bay and now that we are alone with them in the dark we too must face them and pray we do not see our reflections in their faces.

* * *

 _ **You all know I love Walt and Vic and as much as I want them together I just can't see my way there with the little tidbits we have so far for season four. This is how I see them, right now, as I finish this piece.**_

 _ **Thank you ALL for your reviews and your PM's. You are awesome and I can't wait to read what everyone will write once season 4 is launched!**_

* * *

 **COMPLETE**


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